


The Angels of Christopher Street

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1969, Dancing, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, New York City, Other, Stonewall Riots, dancing - not the gavotte!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 08:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19205482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale find themselves at The Stonewall Inn on June 28, 1969.





	The Angels of Christopher Street

**Author's Note:**

> This is fiction and I'm not a historian or a Stonewall expert. I'm certain there are inaccuracies, but I hope I've captured the essence of the events that transpired that night. The Stonewall riot is widely recognized as being the start of the gay rights movement in America. This is not entirely true, the gay rights movement existed before Stonewall but it was an important event just the same. This year is the fiftieth anniversary of Stonewall and as I watched GoodOmens in June, I thought it might be interesting to see what these two would have done had they been there.

_The Stonewall Inn, Christopher Street, New York City, June 27 & 28, 1969 _

Crowley stood at the bar, nursing a gin and tonic. The music was loud, pulsing. It was almost midnight, and the two dance floors were filled with men and a few women, gyrating to the music. He liked New York City; it was the perfect place for a demon, full of sin. He turned and faced the dance floor, elbows resting on the rail. With his shoulder-length auburn hair styled like Mick Jagger’s, and wearing striped trousers with platform boots and a blazing red shirt with the top four buttons undone, he fit right in.

Sipping his drink, he watched men grinding against each other, kissing, groping. This was his kind of place. Pleasures of the flesh were on display everywhere, and it was glorious. His home, London, was a great city too, with no lack of sin and debauchery, but he had welcomed the assignment to New York tonight although he wasn’t quite sure why he was here. The instructions from the head office had been sketchy. “You need to be there. Don’t forget who you are. Defend Evil at all costs.”

“Ow!” He felt a pinch on his bum and turned to face the large, hairy man next to him. “I haven’t seen you here before. Would you like to dance?”

“No mate, I’m waiting for someone—(he wasn’t). Appreciate it though!” He took a step sideways, away from the burly man. _Wouldn’t be my type at all. What a beast. I wish…_

“Hey, my shoes, be careful!” came a voice to his left. A familiar voice. Soft and sweet. Crowley’s face split with a grin as he turned to face the source. “Aziraphale! Fancy seeing you here!” he said to the angel, dressed impeccably in white trousers and a white V neck sweater. Unseasonable in June, but quite stunning, Crowley thought.

“I just had these shined, and you had to step on them,” said the angel, frowning down at his shoes (white of course) which now had a dark smudge where Crowley had trod on them.

“Pfft. Who gives a toss about shoes! Good to see you mate! What are you doing in the Big Apple?... Hey… Big _Apple,_  never occurred to me before, but it reminds me of the Garden of Eden. After the fall that is. Apples are bad news, man! And by that, I mean good news, of course.”

“Gabriel sent me. Didn’t give me details, said I needed to be here, to defend Goodness at all costs.”

“Did he now?”

“And are you here just by coincidence?”

“Are you off your trolley? Of course, I’m not here by coincidence!  There’s the whole world, fuck, the whole universe where either of us could be, yet here we both are. Something’s going down, my friend, or is about to.”

“Something bad, I suppose,” Aziraphale said, with a vexed expression.” I hope it won’t be too awful. You know I’m duty-bound to fight Evil and…of course you.”

“Shame about that flaming sword, it might come in handy. Pity you gave it away,” Crowley drawled, taking another sip and following with his eyes the arse of a passing lad in a sailor suit. “But who knows, it could be something _good_ that’s going to happen.” He grimaced as if the word 'good' were painful to him.

“Well whatever it is, no telling _when_ it's going to happen so we might as well make the best of it. Will you buy me a drink?” asked the angel.

“My pleasure.”

Aziraphale turned to the bartender, “May I see the wine list, Sir?”

The heavy man with a gigantic moustache laughed as though this were the funniest thing he’d ever heard and,  with a feeble attempt at a French accent said, “Monsieur, we have a lovely 1969 Gallo zis evening.”

“Ohhh...Well,” Aziraphale made a face, “Perhaps a dirty martini then?”

Beside him, Crowley snorted with barely suppressed laughter.

“Really, Crowley, you can be so childish!”

“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

Blushing, Aziraphale looked at the floor, then sideways at his adversary, but said nothing.

The two stood for some time, catching up on the happenings in their respective realms, sipping their drinks, and scanning the room, looking for any indication of an impending catastrophe or wondrous event that might set them at odds with one another.

“Bartender, anything out of the ordinary tonight?” inquired Crowley as the man poured their third drink.

“Nope, not a thing. Cops were by earlier this week for their payoff. Things have been quiet. No raid tonight. If it’s gonna happen, it would have happened by now.”

“Raid?”

“Yeah, had one this past Tuesday. Fuckin’ police. One of these days they’re gonna push us too far. Already closed down the Checkerboard and Tele-Star.”

Turning to Aziraphale, Crowley said, “Who knows why we’re here, but since they didn’t see fit to tell us, I say we enjoy ourselves while we’re waiting for…whatever.”  Crowley noted that the angel was shifting slightly from side to side with the beat of the music and he exclaimed in mock surprise: “No! You?”

“What?”

“You want to dance!”

“No, no, of course not.  Angels don’t dance! Well, I did that one time. And I did rather enjoy it, but it put a black mark on my record.  Only another hundred and twelve years before it comes off…”

Crowley let out a guffaw and drained his drink. “You want to dance, Aziraphale. I see it plain as day. Let me tempt you, mate.”

Crowley stepped away from the bar and, spreading his arms, began to swing his hips and snap his fingers, just inches from Aziraphale, who backed up against the rail, astonished.

“You know you want to,” the demon continued, grinning.

“I do, but…”

“Come on then.” Crowley snatched Aziraphale’s hand and started to move toward the dance floor, but the angel baulked.

“Take off your glasses.”

“What?” Crowley said, wheeling on him.

“If you want me to dance, take off your glasses.”

“Why?"

“Um well, I quite like your eyes for one thing, and for another, I don’t like you hiding who you are. Doesn’t seem fitting here.” Aziraphale spread his arms wide, gesturing at the crowd which included several men in drag.

Pleased, Crowley pushed his ever-present sunglasses to the top of his head, revealing golden serpent’s eyes. “Well, It’s on you then if I cause a panic, angel. You’ll have some explaining to do to your higher-ups.”  He grinned, not believing his good luck, Aziraphale was going to dance with him!

As a demon, Crowley loved to dance, not that he was any good at it, mind you, but he loved it just the same. Dancing with an angel, well, that was quite a singular event. Unprecedented.  Consorting with the enemy was dangerous and therefore exciting, and it had been a very dull week. Who knew who was watching? For all he knew Hastur had been sent to spy on him and was currently disguised as one of the drag queens.   

 _Fuck it._ Picking up Aziraphale’s hand again, he started again toward the dance floor.  “I don’t suppose they know the gavotte these days…,” he heard Aziraphale say behind him.

They wound their way around the patrons and onto the crowded dance floor. Sly and the Family Stone’s _Dance to the Music_ was blaring from the speakers, and the black lights made Aziraphale’s white clothing glow. Crowley immediately began to lurch and gyrate. While demons are notoriously bad dancers, they tend to think they are really _good_ dancers and Crowley was no exception. However awful it was (and it was awful) Aziraphale, found Crowley’s dancing captivating and stood watching his friend and swaying ever so slightly to the music.

“Loosen up, angel! Let it all go!” Crowley spun, nearly knocking over the man next to him who was about to protest, but after getting a glimpse of his eyes, thought the better of it and moved away.

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled, and he smiled broadly as his timid sways turned into full-fledged dancing.  He’d never understood the rule about not dancing. Dancing could be an expression of joy and even devotion, and what in God’s name was wrong with that?  Anyway, after three drinks and the intoxicating closeness of the flailing Crowley, he found he didn’t much care.

Aziraphale was a natural dancer, and he moved the corporal form he currently inhabited with grace, keeping perfect rhythm. As he danced, and Sly sang, he felt light and unburdened. Being an angel brought great responsibilities and few opportunities for the relief from the unending pressures of the job. This release was ineffable bliss. And there was also Crowley, who always made him feel happy—and uncomfortable—but in a good way.  Uncomfortable that he was happy, if that makes any sense at all.

 

***

 

And so, the angel and the demon danced, as several blocks away, at the Sixth Precinct, the Public Morals Squad assembled to plan the raid. Angered that they had not been able to secure kickbacks on the blackmailing revenue that the Genovese crime family, who owned the Stonewall, was making from customers, the police had resolved to shut it down.

 

***

 

 _Dance to the Music_ was replaced by the Beatles’ _Twist and Shout,_ and still, they danced. Crowley held out his hand, and Aziraphale took it and twirled, light as air beneath the demon’s arm.  As he finished his spin, and before they let go of each other’s hand, the song ended. They stood there as the opening notes of Elvis Presley’s _Can’t Help Falling in Love with You_ played. They stood there amidst the shuffle that always occurs when the tempo of dance music changes and dancers leave the floor while others arrive in pairs for the slow dance.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Crowley tilted his head and grinned, asking the question wordlessly. _Will you dance with me?_

A blush crept past the collar of the angel’s white sweater and up his neck to his cheeks, and suddenly it felt far too hot there on the dance floor. Hotter than hell. Both held their breath for an endless moment, and then Aziraphale answered the question by stepping forward into the demon’s arms.

 

***

 

At the Stonewall’s pay phone, an undercover policeman made a phone call to the Sixth Precinct, calling for backup, as three additional undercover officers, one man and two women, stood nearby.

 

***

 

 _Wise men say only fools rush in_  
_But I can't help falling in love with you_  
_Shall I stay?_  
_Would it be a sin_  
_If I can't help falling in love with you?_

 

Crowley and Aziraphale swayed to the music, along with the other couples on the dance floor, but they might as well have been alone, so focused were each of them on the other. Crowley marvelled at the feeling of the angel pressed against the length of his body. He had known Aziraphale for millennia, had been friends almost as long, but he wasn’t sure just when he had fallen in love with him. Maybe somewhere around the second century. He couldn’t quite pin it down, but it had been a very, very long time. That it had taken until now to have him in his arms was not surprising, considering that they were mortal enemies, at least in the eyes of Heaven and Hell. This was a forbidden relationship, an abomination. The irony of this was not lost on either of them as they danced together at this hellhole of a bar that served as a haven for the gay community of the great city.

Aziraphale leaned his head against Crowley’s shoulder and whispered, “I’ve dreamed of this.”

“So, have I, angel.”

“I don’t care what happens.”

“Nothing is going to happen, no one is watching, love.” Crowley had no idea if this statement were true, but he wanted to comfort Aziraphale, and he didn’t want to stop what was happening. And things were happening. Oh, yes, very pleasant things were happening, right there in his striped trousers, and he pulled Aziraphale a bit closer.

Aziraphale must have felt the hardness against him because he gave a little exclamation and looked up, but didn’t move away.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”

Aziraphale smiled, a tiny embarrassed smile that made Crowley’s heart positively melt. “Don’t be sorry, it makes me feel…wanted.”

And then, it happened. The THING that neither of them ever thought would happen, although both had secretly wanted it to happen, had daydreamed about it, had lain awake at night thinking about it. That THING that seemed so impossible, so outrageous, so out of the question.

It often happens, when one wants something very badly, especially for a long time, that when one finally gets it, it turns out to be a disappointment. This was not the case for Crowley and Aziraphale. Aziraphale lifted his face expectantly, lips slightly parted, and Crowley pressed his own to them and they KISSED. Kissed for the first time, and neither one was disappointed. Feelings and desire that had grown over centuries but were kept down deep and hidden rushed to the surface and manifested in this singular kiss.

They forgot to dance and stood motionless as the demon’s hands moved to cup Aziraphale’s face and he slipped his serpent tongue into that luscious, soft mouth. The angel sighed and melted into him. It was like the Void before Creation and the two of them were alone in it. Elvis Presley’s voice had faded away and there was only the warm pressure of one body against another, only lips and tongue and—

“Police! We’re taking the place!”

They were startled from their kiss by the loud voice and temporarily blinded as the lights came on. All around them patrons, equally startled, squinted against the light and then looked around. At the front of the bar, eight men stood, four of them uniformed police officers, and four in dark suits.

“This is a raid! Everybody, stay right where you are!” shouted one of the uniformed men.

There were murmurs of confusion all around. Some of the patrons followed orders and stayed where they were, but a few, those who knew what was going on, bolted for the back entrance only to find it blocked.

Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other, and Crowley slipped his sunglasses back down over his eyes. “I think it’s starting.”

“What is ‘ _it?'_  I don’t understand. Apparently, this place gets raided all the time, certainly not something that warrants our involvement, surely there are more important things happening in the world.”

“That remains to be seen, angel.”

“Everybody line up! Hands where we can see them.” Two of the patrol officers had their nightsticks out and were guiding customers and employees alike into lines on the dance floor. Two men guarded the door, and the rest began taking bottles of alcohol from behind the bar.

They allowed themselves to be herded into a line.  On their left was a butch woman and, on their right, a drag queen with dramatic makeup and elaborately coiffed hair, clutching a purse in front of her. Aziraphale took hold of Crowley’s hand and squeezed it. To his dismay, Crowley dropped it and gave his head a warning shake, mouthing “No.”

“No? Crowley! I thought—”

The drag queen interrupted. “He’s right, no use asking for trouble.  Just do what they say.”

“What’s going to happen?” Aziraphale said.

“They’ll ask for ID, then they’ll take me to the bathroom and ask me to pull up my dress. Then, when they see I’ve got a dick, I guess I’ll go to jail. Tears welled in her eyes. I hope there aren’t any photographers out there.  I’ve got a good job, the last thing I need is my picture in the paper wearing my mother’s dress."

Aziraphale puffed out his chest, his eyes glittering with indignation. “That’s ridiculous, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“She exists,” stated the butch woman. “That’s enough for them. I’ll probably end up in jail too. Not wearing any girly shit. Gotta be wearing three pieces for these bastards to be satisfied.”

The police officer was making his way down the line, checking IDs.

“This is outrageous!” sputtered Aziraphale. “Crowley, don’t you think this is outrageous?”

Crowley looked at his boots and said nothing. He was beginning to understand what was happening and what his role was supposed to be in this sordid human affair. _Bloody hell, why couldn’t I have just been sent here to design another hellish highway, muck up the telephone system, or some such thing?_ Ever since he’d sauntered vaguely downward, he’d tried his best to do the least possible work while still appearing to advance the cause of Evil. He’d never actually secured any souls for his side, but he had caused plenty of inconvenience for humanity, which in truth he did enjoy, and thus far it had all worked out swimmingly.

“She’s right, Aziraphale, just do what they say. No sense causing a fuss; we’ll be back in London by tea-time.” He hated himself for saying it, but he said it anyway. He could still taste Aziraphale’s mouth and smell his angelic scent lingering on his own skin. He remembered how it felt to hold him and that for that short time he hadn’t cared who was watching, only that he was holding the one thing he loved. He glanced at the drag queen, the woman next to him and the others in line, and he hated himself.

Aziraphale glared at him. “I certainly will _not._ And neither should you,” he said to the queen and the dyke and anyone else who was close enough to hear him. “I’m Aziraphale, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.

“Maria,” said the drag queen.  

“Stormé,” said the dyke.

Crowley continued to look at his boots in silence.

 

***

 

The officer reached Maria first.

“Identification?”

Maria handed him her driver’s license.

“Says here Steve Ritter, _ma’am,_ ” said the officer, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“That’s correct,” Maria said with defiance, but she clutched her purse a little tighter.

“I’m going to need you to go with Officer O’Malley here to the restroom.”

She glanced sideways at Aziraphale, who gave her a look of solidarity.

“I will not. I’ve done nothing wrong, and it’s nobody’s business what’s under this dress!”

“I’ll ask you one more time, nicely. I ain’t got all night.”

“No.”

“Take him.”

Officer O’Malley dragged Maria from the line and out the door to be loaded into the police wagon.

“Fucking pigs,” muttered Stormé.

Occult and ethereal beings don’t carry such documents as drivers licenses and passports. For one thing, what would they use as a birth date? “The Beginning of Time” would surely earn a raised eyebrow, and so why bother? When they are in a situation such as this, they make do with what they have. And what Crowley had in his pocket that night was a ticket stub from The Who’s _Tommy_ , in Devon, back in April, apparently the last time he had worn these particular pants.  

He blew on it gently before handing it to the officer, and the officer saw what Crowley wanted him to see.

“OK, Mr Crowley, you are free to go. Get out of here, and go straight home, no loitering.”

“I’ll think I’ll wait for my friend.”

“Your little fairy boyfriend will join you in a minute if his ID checks out. Now scram.”

For the briefest moment, Crowley considered turning the officer into a toad, but he checked his anger, glowered at him (the glower was wasted due to the sunglasses), and stalked out.

***

Aziraphale joined Crowley outside the Stonewall where there was a crowd forming, consisting of patrons who had supplied identification and were let go, and various passersby stopping out of curiosity. A police wagon was at the curb and was loaded with those without ID or dressed as the “wrong” gender, including Maria. There was an air of unrest, an undercurrent of anger, and both of them could feel it. The scene was electric with possibility, but which way would it go?

“So this is it,”  said Aziraphale. “This must be why we’re here.”

“I think so.”

“What do we do? “

“Obviously, I do Evil, and you do Good; do I really have to give you a refresher?”

Their discussion was interrupted by a shout from somewhere in the mob. “Gay power!”

They looked in the direction of the bar and saw Stormé being escorted out. She was not going easily. She was struggling and swearing, and one of the officers hit her on the head with his baton. She fell to the ground, not twenty feet from them. There on the pavement, bleeding, she looked beseechingly at the crowd and screamed: “Why don’t you guys do something?” Then she was pulled to her feet by two officers and shoved into the back of the wagon.

“Pigs!” yelled someone in the crowd. Pennies began flying through the air when the bar manager, a mafia member, was led out, to the chant “Pay them off!”

The growing crowd watched the men coming out of the bar, either on their own or accompanied by police to be loaded into the wagon. The men not arrested began posing for the crowd, with exaggerated limp-wristed gestures or primping motions. The onlookers cheered them on. The tension was building. The police, not used to this kind of reaction to their raids, were unprepared. As the crowd closed in, the police started using physical force, and some of them retreated inside the Stonewall.

Aziraphale turned to his best friend who was still his best friend, but thirty minutes ago became something more, and spoke excitedly. “This is wrong, Crowley, and I’m going to do something about it.  Can you feel what’s happening? _I_ feel it. These people have something in them, something magnificent! He made a grand gesture with his hands. “A power, a rage, and I don’t think they understand yet, what they can do. This feels so familiar, a bit like Versaille in 1789, Oh wasn’t _that_ glorious! I know why I’m here! I’m here to make sure they find their power and their voice and use it. I think things just need a wee nudge, and they’ll take it from there.”  He stopped, out of breath, eyes blazing.

"Then you know why _I’m_ here Aziraphale," Crowley said miserably.

“To defend Evil. To stop me.”  

“At all costs.”

“And are you going to do that?”

“Angel, I have to, I’m on thin ice with the head office as it is. Christ! Why couldn’t they have just sent me to shut down the fucking subway system?”

Aziraphale stepped closer and took Crowley’s hand, then stepped closer still, until their faces were just inches apart.

“Do you remember what happened in there, between us?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never been kissed before, Crowley, and it was the most amazing, beautiful thing that’s ever happened to me; being kissed by a demon, being kissed by you. We could both be destroyed for it, but do you think it was wrong? I don’t. And you know what, I would do it again. I _want_ to do it again. I want to do it again, and I don’t care about the consequences. And these people are no different. We aren’t going to change Heaven and Hell and our fate, but they _can_ change their world. And we have a chance to help them."

“Oh, angel.”

“Would you do it for _me_?”

Aziraphale rose up on his toes and kissed Crowley on the lips, and Crowley groaned. Then he kissed back. And for the second time neither was disappointed. Crowley wrapped his long arms around Aziraphale and hugged him tightly. “I would do anything for you Aziraphale, you know that don’t you?” he whispered into the angel’s hair.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered back.

Reluctantly, they let go of each other and turned back toward the scene. The crowd had grown bigger still and a second police wagon had arrived. There were sirens and shouting, and an impromptu chorus line of men was kicking its legs, Rockettes-style and singing.

“What are you going to do?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale looked around and then walked over to a pile of bricks, left by construction workers next door to the Stonewall. “I’m going to escalate things a bit,” he said, picking up a brick and tossing it from hand to hand, testing its weight. “You don’t need to do a thing.”  

“Bloody hell, if there’s going to be brick throwing, I’m not going to be left out!” Crowley said, bending to take one from the pile.

“Only windows, no people!” Aziraphale admonished.

The angel and the demon walked side by side through the crowd toward the bar, and, when they were close enough, paused to look at one another. Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley took a deep breath.

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

“I love you, Crowley.”

And together they hurled the bricks through the front window of The Stonewall Inn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There is uncertainty over who threw the first brick at Stonewall or even if it was a brick at all. The eyewitnesses themselves aren't sure. There is a very good video piece done by the New York Times that talks about this and some of the other popular misconceptions about Stonewall. 
> 
> [view it here](https://www.nytimes.com/video/us/100000006322550/stonewall-lgbt-pride-anniversary.html)
> 
> Maria and Stormé are real people who were at the Stonewall that night.


End file.
